Grief Is Another Word For Love

Depression

You're sinking. You know it's bad, but you can't find the will to care. Everything that was good in life has been torn out, leaving a gaping hole where your heart once was. There's blood in the water now and the sharks can't be too far off. You're miles out from shore, there's no use in screaming. So why not disappear?

    (Hitting rock bottom sounds more peaceful than struggling to stay afloat.)

    The sunsets lost their vibrance. Ever since Peter evaporated into nothing, the setting of the sun has turned into a dull, muddy watercolor. Even here, sitting on top of Avengers Tower, practically on top of the world, Tony couldn't see the beauty anymore. The sun was nothing but a fiery ball of gas hurtling through space, nothing romantic about it.

Below him, people went on with their lives, oblivious to the grieving man that was once their hero perched above them.

(Was he ever a hero?)

Whiskey in hand, Tony thought about what would happen if he fell. Those people below would stop and see his grief splattered on the pavement, finally acknowledging the loss of the real hero. But Tony would only feel peace. Real peace that he hadn't felt since before he was born.

Tony could always activate the suit mid-fall and fly back to safety if he wanted. At this point, he merely craved the fear and adrenaline of falling through the sky, the wind licking his dirty hair. He hasn't felt anything other than broken since coming back to Earth.

(Guilt being the only exception.)

And what good was Tony, anyway? He couldn't keep his own son alive, let alone half the universe. The responsibility of protecting the world couldn't possibly rest on the shoulders of someone so useless, worthless. Despicable.

"FRIDAY, can you record a voice message for Pepper? For when she gets back?" Tony said, hesitant and unsure.

"Of course, boss. What would you like to say?" The AI replied affectionately, ever attentive.

Tony poured his heart out. He said he was sorry and that he loved her, that she would be okay. He said everything he wished he'd said to Peter and more. He said goodbye.

"You seem to be in distress. Would you like me to contact someone?" FRIDAY's voice was as concerned as an AI's voice could be, her accent giving her worry a soothing lilt.

"No. I've never been better." For once, Tony was telling the truth. He was sure now.

The man put his whiskey on the ledge and stood, shaking. He sighed, his breath tinted with alcohol and his eyes bejeweled with tears. Tony was ready. His son was waiting.

So he smiled. Then he jumped.

(Great things are about to happen.)